His best friend clapped on his hat and strode away; in a moment the door closed behind him.  Rowland walked hard for nearly a couple of hours.  He passed up the Corso, out of the Porta del Popolo and into the Villa Borghese, of which he made a complete circuit.  The keenness of his irritation subsided, but it left him with an intolerable weight upon his heart.  When dusk had fallen, he found himself near the lodging of his friend Madame Grandoni.  He frequently paid her a visit during the hour which preceded dinner, and he now ascended her unillumined staircase and rang at her relaxed bell-rope with an especial desire for diversion.  He was told that, for the moment, she was occupied, but that if he would come in and wait, she would presently be with him.  He had not sat musing in the firelight for ten minutes when he heard the jingle of the door-bell and then a rustling and murmuring in the hall.  The door of the little saloon opened, but before the visitor appeared he had recognized her voice.  Christina Light swept forward, preceded by her poodle, and almost filling the narrow parlor with the train of her dress.  She was colored here and there by the flicking firelight.

“They told me you were here,” she said simply, as she took a seat.

“And yet you came in?  It is very brave,” said Rowland.

“You are the brave one, when one thinks of it!  Where is the padrona?”

“Occupied for the moment.  But she is coming.”

“How soon?”

“I have already waited ten minutes; I expect her from moment to moment.”

“Meanwhile we are alone?” And she glanced into the dusky corners of the room.

“Unless Stenterello counts,” said Rowland.

“Oh, he knows my secrets—­unfortunate brute!” She sat silent awhile, looking into the firelight.  Then at last, glancing at Rowland, “Come! say something pleasant!” she exclaimed.

“I have been very happy to hear of your engagement.”

“No, I don’t mean that.  I have heard that so often, only since breakfast, that it has lost all sense.  I mean some of those unexpected, charming things that you said to me a month ago at Saint Cecilia’s.”

“I offended you, then,” said Rowland.  “I was afraid I had.”

“Ah, it occurred to you?  Why have n’t I seen you since?”

“Really, I don’t know.”  And he began to hesitate for an explanation.  “I have called, but you have never been at home.”

“You were careful to choose the wrong times.  You have a way with a poor girl!  You sit down and inform her that she is a person with whom a respectable young man cannot associate without contamination; your friend is a very nice fellow, you are very careful of his morals, you wish him to know none but nice people, and you beg me therefore to desist.  You request me to take these suggestions to heart and to act upon them as promptly as possible.  They are not particularly flattering to my vanity.  Vanity,